


Feather Light

by unicornsandbutane



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Angel Wings, Historical, M/M, Oral Sex, Weird Biology, Wing Grooming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 14:10:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19702960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornsandbutane/pseuds/unicornsandbutane
Summary: July 1793, ParisAfter an audacious escape from the Bastille, Aziraphale and Crowley find they’ve gotten their feathers a little ruffled, and help each other smooth things over.





	Feather Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [looking_glass22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/looking_glass22/gifts).



“That Marat,” Aziraphale complained as they left the Bastille, shifting his funny red hat uncomfortably, “drunk with power if you ask me. I met him, you know.”

“Did you,” Crowley offered, skirting the crowd which had gathered around the guillotine. He would have thought that after the first thousand or so political executions, the whole display would get a bit dull, but then, he was only a demon. Humans’ unquenchable bloodlust was an endless source of brownie points with the great beast, for him.

“I did! Terrible skin, him. And /rude/. I told him to go soak his head.”

“Ah well, good advice.” Crowley noted, pushing through a throng. They were traveling against the flow of traffic, ducking around all the sans-culottes headed toward the Place de la Révolution, their progress slowed by all the people who wanted to pat Aziraphale on the back, or shake his hand.

“What in heaven’s name is going on? Why are all these people so friendly to me? I was in prison not ten minutes ago,” Aziraphale asked, turning flabbergasted to watch a group of young people swept up in the revolutionary fervor, after one had clasped Aziraphale by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks.

“You’re dressed as an executioner,” Crowley reminded him.

“Saints alive, I am,” Aziraphale gasped, as if he’d forgotten. He picked at the rosette on his shirtfront. “Dreadful shame. I really liked that cravat.”

There was a cheer behind them. “Well you’re not going to want it now. I’d wager it’ll be rather bloody after all that,” Crowley gestured to the crowd. Aziraphale rubbed his throat sympathetically.

“I ought to have saved him,” the angel muttered. “Him dying in my place... that’s wrong, isn’t it?”

“Are you seriously asking me?” Crowley shot back, turning a corner at random. He only needed to find them a secluded spot where he could /miracle/ them back to England. “Asking a demon for moral advice. They must have really ruffled your feathers, angel.”

“They did, rather, yes. Not that /they/ could tell but... I can. My lovely wings are in a right state.”

Crowley snorted. Aziraphale took better care of his wings than any other angel Crowley might care to mention, but still several degrees less attentively than any self-respecting demon. They came back around to a view of the Seine, and Crowley set off for one of the many bridges. “Look, the bloke was just bragging about having lopped the heads off of three hundred people,” he assuaged. “Do you really think he was bound for the pearly gates?”

“Two hundred and ninety-nine,” Aziraphale corrected, miserably. “I was to be number three hundred.” He kept pace with Crowley, trotting along behind him as they attempted to pass unnoticed through the madding crowds.

“Oh dear, such a shame we stopped him from making it a nice round number,” Crowley spat, sarcastically. “Crepes. Honestly. There’s a war on, you know. Even if you weren’t dressed like a bloody Earl, you do sound English, and Mad King George is supporting some very unpopular Frenchmen, if you don’t read the news.”

“Humans and their wars. After a few thousand years it becomes difficult to keep track,” Aziraphale griped.

“Yes, well, in the future, you might do well to simply assume France and England are at war. Historically, it would probably save time.”

Finally, they managed to find a quiet side street. It smelled of fresh baked bread, and Aziraphale, predictably, turned his face toward the bakery window, eyes on the rows of shining pastries, each one a little glistening jewel of shortcrust and sugar.

“You’re going to stop for a brioche au framboise while fleeing for your life?” Crowley asked, though he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised.

Aziraphale hesitated.

“No,” he said finally. “Let’s go home.”

They ended up at Aziraphale’s comfortably cluttered London flat. It had that cream-vanilla smell of old book glue, and Crowley perched himself on the edge of a mahogany chair upholstered in red leather to wait while the angel changed out of his executioner costume. He picked up the closest book to hand, a crumbling volume at the top of a stack, and perused the first few pages.

“‘MALLEUS MALEFICARUM, Maleficas, & earum hæresim, ut phramea potentissima conterens’,” he read. “‘The witch hammer, which destroys witches’ heresy as with a double-edged blade’?” he muttered aloud. “Satan’s frosty tits, I remember this book. International bestseller three hundred years ago, this.” He flipped through the stiff vellum pages until he landed upon the section discussing whether or not children may be begotten by incubi or succubi, and there he began laughing. Aziraphale returned to his main room to find Crowley giggling over an antique book.

“What on earth is so funny?” Aziraphale asked, smoothing his waistcoat.

“Apparently... apparently I’m meant to be taking residence in human bodies for the purpose of stealing semen,” Crowley said, grinning madly. “‘The angels, whether they be good or whether they be evil,’” he quoted, with a pointed glance in Aziraphale’s direction, “‘are pure and spiritual intelligences. Therefore they can control what is below them. Therefore the devil can collect and make use as he will of human semen which belongs to the body.’ There you have it, angel. Either you or I could make use of human semen, for good or for ill.”

“Oh come off it you silly thing,” Aziraphale chastised. His wings manifested behind him, brushing against the packed bookshelves as he walked. “Just look at what those Montagnard ruffians did to my poor coverts. They even bent some of my primaries.”

“Those /hooligans/,” Crowley drawled, putting the book aside. He spread his own wings out as much as he could in the cramped space. “I’m not faring much better you know. I flew across the Channel to get you.”

“Oh... I ought to thank you properly. Shall I send a bouquet to your address?” Aziraphale had the decency to look sheepish as he approached, and gently smoothed some of Crowley’s misplaced feathers. “Whyever did you /fly/ all that distance, my dear fellow? Couldn’t you just /pop/ over, like I did?”

“Didn’t you just say you got a stern talking to for performing too many frivolous miracles? I’m not exactly trying to get noticed by the lower-downs,” Crowley defended. “Especially when I’m doing so to save /your/ neck.”

“I do thank you most sincerely,” Aziraphale murmured, fingers combing through Crowley’s coverts, slipping the barbules back into their interlocking positions. “Such lovely, glossy black feathers,” he said, almost to himself. “Everyone who goes to Saint James’s Park just to see an ambassadorial pelican would be blown away by the sight of these.”

“That goes without saying, angel. People are generally a bit gobsmacked when they see a celestial being, Fallen or not.” He stretched his wing into the gentle touches, though, allowing himself to be lulled by Aziraphale’s warm fingers skating the thin hidden skin over his wing muscles.

“Oh yes, all that ‘be ye not afraid’ claptrap,” Aziraphale agreed. “I don’t miss that about the old days, let me tell you.”

Crowley didn’t respond, except for a low sound in his throat when Aziraphale’s fingers found the base of one of his primaries, and then ran down the shaft, straightening it.

“You know, birds have a special gland at the base of the tail that secretes an oil to help them keep their feathers clean and tidy,” Aziraphale noted, nodding towards an unbound sheaf of the handwritten observations of Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II, lying on an open writing desk next to an ornate magnifying glass.

“Seems a bit messy, don’t you think?” Crowley mused. He was rather glad that he, being of angel stock and thus well-formed in the bower of perfect Creation, had no need of such funny business.

“Well, it works for the birds,” Aziraphale replied, still combing his fingers through Crowley’s feathers. “Give us the other wing, will you?”

Crowley turned to provide better access, and thus, got a better look at the former emperor’s notes.

“Ah, Frederick II. He’s one of ours, you know. Frightfully unusual man. Excommunicated four times. Back in the twelfth century they called him the Antichrist. Gave us a little bit of a scare, you know. We wondered if somehow the humans had figured out how to springboard Armageddon without us, cut out the middle men. But it was just papal propaganda in the end, thankfully.”

“Mm, yes, those Holy Roman Emperors certainly are an interesting lot,” Aziraphale commented, preening Crowley with deft and generous motions. “I miss Rudolf II.”

Crowley lifted his wing a bit, encouraging Aziraphale’s fingers in under Crowley’s coat, to scratch at the base of the wing. “Ahh, that’s /good/, angel,” he crooned, arching into it. Eyes closed, his shoulders relaxed into the attention. “I could take you to see Rudolf II, of course. You’d just have to become a demon first.”

“Oh, but then who would combat your evil deeds here on Earth, hm?” Aziraphale teased back, his other hand coming up to scratch affectionately at the base of the other wing.

“Ah, good point. Counterpoint, who cares?” Crowley sighed without conviction.

“For the past two hundred years, nobody. It would seem,” Aziraphale conceded. “Else you never would have been able to pull off your daring rescue today.”

“Don’t call it that,” Crowley whined. “It’s bad for my mystique.”

“So is having your back scritched like a terrier, but I don’t see you complaining.” Aziraphale redoubled his efforts and Crowley sagged into his hands, a long groan rising to his lips. Chuckling, Aziraphale smoothed his palms up to the arch of each wing, and gave them a fond little squeeze.

“Like a /terrier/? How insulting,” Crowley scoffed, turning to face Aziraphale. Despite the breadth of their wings, neither had upset a single page of Aziraphale’s many precarious stacks. He reached for one of Aziraphale’s wings, began combing long fingers between the small, downy feathers, and watched Aziraphale’s eyelids flutter. He wanted to crow in triumph, but chose instead not to disturb the moment. Aziraphale’s wings were soft, each feather a bit more flexible than Crowley’s own, and, up close, Crowley could see how the leading vanes of his flight feathers were ever so slightly pearlescent.

“It is rather nice,” Aziraphale admitted, allowing Crowley to undo the damage that the French revolutionaries had done. His bent pinions were straightened, his mussed pennaceous barbs realigned. “Your hands are cooler than I would have expected.”

Crowley didn’t answer, but slipped his hands in under Aziraphale’s frock coat, touched the skin of his back before beginning a gentle scratch at the base of his wings, echoing Aziraphale’s earlier ministrations. Aziraphale hummed gratefully, wings stretching in pleasure.

“Oh, I wish I had you around more often to do this. Perhaps then my wings would be as attractive as yours,” he said dreamily. “Not to mention... oh, just there, Crowley!”

Crowley had dared just a bit further, nails running up and down Aziraphale’s back beneath his shirts. Evidently, Aziraphale enjoyed it immensely, because he squirmed and writhed under Crowley’s fingers, attempting to direct the attention here or there. It was rather charming.

“You’d better be careful, angel,” Crowley warned. “Who knows what your neighbors will think if you keep begging and moaning like that.” He didn’t really want Aziraphale to stop, but he had to give his old friend the opportunity to compose himself, or risk upsetting the status quo.

“Let them. They think I’m a macaroni fop, anyway,” he replied dismissively, leaning further into Crowley’s hands.

“Likely because you are,” Crowley muttered, but he helped Aziraphale out of his frock coat, waistcoat, and linen shirt when the angel urged him to.

“Recall when we used to go about in less than this? Nowadays this little clothing is considered indecent.” He was still wearing his drawers, breeches, stockings, and garters.

“Yes, Egypt. Before all that ‘exodus’ business. You were so tan then.”

“I was. I’m not sure it was the best look for me.” He turned, reached out slowly to push Crowley’s sunglasses up on top of his head, met his slitted eyes. “Crowley,” he said softly.

“Yes, angel?” He almost didn’t dare to think he knew what Aziraphale was about to say.

“You do... continually seem to get me out of tough scrapes,” he mumbled. “One must wonder if... if there’s something to that.”

“Best not speak of that,” Crowley said.

“I see. Bad for the mystique,” Aziraphale tutted, but then Crowley found himself reaching out, cupping Aziraphale’s cheek. By degrees, he leaned forward, until their foreheads were touching.

“Angel,” he breathed, and then Aziraphale was kissing him. He hadn’t thought, when he’d slithered into the Bastille earlier that day, that this was where it would lead him. But, Aziraphale’s fingers were in his hair, and it was every bit as good as having them combing through his feathers had been, and his mouth was passionate and willing, and he was making the sweetest sounds. Crowley was not well known for his resistance to temptation. He gave in, hands sliding up Aziraphale’s back, thumbs brushing the base of his wings again. Aziraphale broke away, and Crowley stared at him, bewildered. Why now, after all this time?

“You saved me from the Great Fire in 1666,” Aziraphale recalled.

“I’m fireproof. And besides, I was in the neighborhood,” Crowley deflected.

“And from the noxious cloud from the volcano eruption ten years back.”

“Well, I’m also sulfur proof,” Crowley noted.

“And from those highwaymen in 1485.”

“Are you going somewhere with this?”

“The bedroom, I should think,” Aziraphale answered, smiling at his own cheekiness.

Crowley made a wounded sound, stroked his hands down Aziraphale’s wings again. “You mean that?”

“I think I do. You’re very dashing in your silk shirt and steinkirk.” Aziraphale’s fingers walked up the line of metal buttons holding Crowley’s waistcoat closed, and Crowley wanted to make a joke, perhaps about the fact that a steinkirk was about a hundred years out of fashion, but then Aziraphale’s expression changed. “Are you interested in such things? I’ve been accused of being a bit of a libertine— mostly about food, of course. But perhaps you...?”

“It’s been a very long time,” Crowley said. “I think Plato was still teaching at the Academy the last time I did anything of that nature.” He was reeling. He very much wanted to simply go back to kissing Aziraphale, and be done with all this retreading of the past.

Aziraphale’s face fell, and he took a step back. “Oh. It er. Didn’t strike your fancy?”

Crowley pulled him close again, wrapped his wings around him. “The other involved party, at the time, was human. I felt odd about that, afterwards.”

“That’s understandable. They are such funny creatures. Are you suggesting, however, that you’d feel less odd about a dalliance with, er... someone who had more in common with you?” He moved his wings so the feathers slid against Crowley’s. The soft, cool friction was a new sensation, and Crowley shivered.

“I think I might,” he confirmed, and then Aziraphale’s hand was in his, leading him toward a small and equally cluttered bedchamber. He sat on the edge of the bed to pull off his leather shoes, before standing to help Crowley out of his many layers, the same way Crowley had with him. Crowley repeatedly stole kisses, first on Aziraphale’s cheek, then his forehead, and once, embarrassingly, the tip of his nose. Aziraphale only laughed, and stroked his hands down Crowley’s bare chest to his hips.

“Drop-front breeches,” Aziraphale observed, his thumbs brushing the buttons. “I’ve always thought these were rather saucy, you know?”

“/Saucy/?” Crowley quipped, incredulous. “How on earth could knee-length trousers be saucy?”

“Easy access, to be crude,” Aziraphale replied, blushing. He pulled one of the buttons loose, and reached in, and Crowley closed his eyes and willed an erection into being, just as Aziraphale’s hand met it. “Oh!” Aziraphale gasped, his fingers wrapping around the shaft. “That was rather well done, my dear fellow.”

“You think?” Crowley rasped. “Glad you were impressed.”

“Oh yes, you got it all in one go,” Aziraphale praised, slipping his hand down to fondle Crowley’s newly-appeared balls. “Once, I forgot about this bit, and had to imagine them into being /during the act/. Luckily, my partner assumed I was a transvestite, and that I’d ‘tucked them away’. Ah but that was during the reign of Elagabalus. It was a different time.”

“Ahh I think I was operating under the guise of a leader of a Dionysian cult for the entirety of his reign,” Crowley ground out, as Aziraphale began to stroke him. Why was he still standing upright when there was a bed right there?

“Oh, so you were largely drunk,” Aziraphale guessed, rubbing his thumb in the slit. It was all too sensitive; he hadn’t gotten used to having any such anatomy to speak of just yet, and Aziraphale was making him hotly aware of the difference.

“Extremely,” he said. “Could we maybe lie down? Much as I enjoy darkening your doorway I think—!” He cut himself off with a choke when Aziraphale tightened his grip at the base.

“At least take your shoes off first, my dear boy,” Aziraphale tutted, and then Crowley was stumbling out of his shoes, forcing his breeches and smallclothes down, lying back on the bed to struggle out of his stockings and garters. Aziraphale watched the whole process, and removed his garments at a much more sedate pace. He folded them neatly aside, and then crawled into bed alongside Crowley, sliding a hand up from Crowley’s ankle to the arch of his hip. Crowley finally plucked his sunglasses from where they perched at the crown of his head, and put them aside, before turning his eyes on Aziraphale, nude and warm, with that soft look in his eyes. Crowley blinked at the cock the angel had given himself, and made a face.

“Did you make yours bigger just to show me up?” he demanded, and Aziraphale tittered in a genteel fashion.

“Of course not. I made it this way because I thought you might like it. I can change it if you don’t—“ Aziraphale offered, but Crowley shook his head.

“Don’t change a single thing about yourself, angel,” he urged.

Aziraphale huffed a quiet laugh, and began kissing down Crowley’s chest. “Why do you always call me that?” He asked, lips against Crowley’s sternum, “I don’t go about calling you ‘demon’.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” Crowley replied, dodging the question.

“There are other angels. Would you address them all that way?” Aziraphale asked, his chin poking into Crowley’s lower belly.

“Of course not,” Crowley scoffed. “You’re the only being I’d ever call /angel/.”

Aziraphale pressed his smile into the jut of Crowley’s hip. He nosed into Crowley’s inner thigh, affectionately.

“I should ask how you’d like this to play out,” Aziraphale said, kissing up Crowley’s thigh to his knee.

Crowley wanted to shiver. Aziraphale’s mouth was so warm, and he was offering... any assortment of things. His wings flexed against the bed.

“I’ll take you on, angel,” he said, mustering his bravado. “Do your worst.”

“My /best/, you mean,” Aziraphale corrected, but then his mouth was around Crowley’s cock and that... he didn’t think that human back in Athens had done that to him. He looked down the line of his body, watched Aziraphale bob his head. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be enjoying himself, and Crowley’s cock twitched between Aziraphale’s lips. Aziraphale’s tongue was so /hot/, hell’s /teeth/! And it was pressed right up against... everything at once, it felt like. And the /sound/ of it, Satan’s trousers, he could hardly believe, an angel, /his/ angel, would do this to him. Was doing it, currently and expertly, making his head swim. He pushed his hands into his own hair to avoid yanking on Aziraphale’s.

“/Angel!/“ he gasped, arching on the bed, clawing the sheets. Aziraphale pulled off slowly, wiping his mouth discreetly.

“Would you like, perhaps, to be on top?” he asked, and Crowley wasn’t sure which iteration of that Aziraphale meant, but nodded anyway, then watched Aziraphale lay out next to him, and then pat his own thighs, beckoning. Gingerly, Crowley straddled Aziraphale’s lap. “Here,” Aziraphale said, reaching under his mattress for a decorative bottle, stoppered with a cork. “Probably shouldn’t perform any little miracles for this, so we’ll have to do it the newfangled way.”

Crowley pulled the cork with his teeth, and found the bottle to be full of a fragrant oil. He couldn’t place the scent, even as he tipped some onto his fingers and began stroking Aziraphale’s cock with it and the scent filled the air.

Aziraphale’s eyes, heavy-lidded, shone as they watched him. Low, appreciative sounds rose in his chest, and then spilled out, curiously high, between his lips. Thousands and thousands of years, and Crowley had never prepared himself for something like this. Something base and carnal with Aziraphale. All at once, he felt immensely stupid, and he wasn’t accustomed to that either. How could he not have considered... Aziraphale was like the light side of his moon. He closed his eyes to concentrate on making his body ready, then lifted up on his knees, held Aziraphale in place, and began to sink down onto him.

“Ah, my dear, darling fellow,” Aziraphale rasped, but he either didn’t have anything else to say, or he forgot it when Crowley sat flush against his hips, Aziraphale’s cock as deep as it could go.

“Am I your darling?” Crowley tried to drawl, with his usual affected indifference, but it came out thin and reedy. It felt like all the spare space inside of him was being filled up. His wings fluttered, tips of his primaries brushing Aziraphale’s legs. He breathed in and out, carefully, then began to move. “Gave yourself a great big cock, because you thought I’d like it,” he forced out, lifting his hips and slamming them down, watching Aziraphale’s face. “What about you, angel, do you like it? Do you like stretching me open like this?”

Aziraphale nodded, words failing him. His hands, soft and warm, found Crowley’s hips, tried to slow his pace, but Crowley wouldn’t let him. He braced himself on Aziraphale’s chest, and bounced quickly, jealous of the feeling of Aziraphale’s cock hitting deep, deep, deep within him, and unwilling to be without it long.

“Crowley, you go so fast,” Aziraphale yelped, bringing his hands up to cover his eyes, helplessly.

“I just want you inside,” Crowley said, not a complete answer, but it didn’t have to be. The bed was creaking rhythmically, and he used his wings for balance, then, to lift and drop himself harder and faster. “Angel. /My/ angel,” he whispered. There was something hot building inside of him, and he wondered if it was the same for Aziraphale.

“Crowley. My dear heart,” Aziraphale mumbled, peering up from between his fingers as Crowley continued to ride him. “It’s so much!”

Crowley wanted to laugh. He felt like that ought to be his line. “You too,” he panted. “So full.” He threw his weight into his downward thrusts. Aziraphale made an animal sound and clawed Crowley’s back and that was where Crowley lost it. To have his back marked by the guardian of the eastern gate was too much to handle, and he tipped his head back, shouted once, and came.

It wasn’t... he remembered part of what had so distressed him about that human in Athens a few centuries back. The mess. Because the Malleus Maleficarum got some details wrong and he wasn’t actually in the habit of stealing semen for nefarious purposes, there wasn’t anything to splatter wetly across Aziraphale’s chest, drip down and stain the bed linens. It was instead a complete surrender to the spasms of his body. He felt all his muscles tighten, clench around the overwhelming girth inside him, and it felt a bit like flying and falling at the same time.

“/Darling/,” Aziraphale grit out, hovering on the edge as Crowley came down.

“/Angel/,” Crowley answered, sliding a reverent hand up Aziraphale’s body, before Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered shut and he shuddered violently, hips lifting up off the bed and taking Crowley with them.

“Ah, /Crowley/,” he whispered, gripping Crowley’s hips to pull him down hard into each thrust as he rode it out. He shook and shook, and Crowley watched the whole while, awestruck. He’d never seen Aziraphale look this way, loose and rough-edged, moving Crowley where he needed him, brows pinched and lip curled to show his teeth. Crowley couldn’t take his eyes off him. He was sore and raw by the time Aziraphale began to slow his hips, but it was worth it for the way Aziraphale sighed and blinked up at him, drowsily content, when it was over.

“Hmmm,” Aziraphale mumbled, rubbing one eye sleepily. “Seems I mussed your lovely wings again.”

Crowley climbed off of him, carefully. “Yours are in a right state, too,” he pointed out.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale murmured as he stretched out. “I’ll sort them out later.”

“I could help you,” Crowley offered, surprising himself.

Aziraphale blinked owlishly at him for a moment. “Yes,” he replied. “And I could help you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for your help looking_glass22!


End file.
